Track down the female relatives of misogynistic entertainers and court them expressly for the purpose of pouring alcohol on their booties. No grandmother’s bucket list is complete if she hasn’t had her bloomers soaked with Arbor Mist.
Have the American Chopper guys build me a custom motorcycle that I’ll be too scared to ride and end up just rolling out into the driveway every Saturday morning so the hotties who jog in my neighborhood can see me rubbing it down with Armor-all in my leather pants and muscle-less muscle shirt. Get carried away with the Armor-all, start rubbing down my leather pants. Realize how bad I look when neighbors step outside to find me massaging my own butt cheeks. Move. Leave leather pants in trashcan in driveway.
Rent a house in the Hollywood hills and throw coke parties without having any actual drugs on the premises. Probably won’t help me climb the social ladder, but what could more fun than a house full of dejected upper class junkies? Too fidgety to enjoy the crab dip, too polite to say just how much they were looking forward to scoring, you can’t put a price tag on that kind of entertainment.
Bring cock fighting and baby seal hunting to the mainstream so I can promote them as pay-per-view “family” events.
Open a chain of overpriced sub shops that uses 3 day-old meat and lots of jalapenos, even and especially when customers ask employees to “hold the jalapenos”.
Invest every dime I’ve got into a company that manufactures hickory smoked oatmeal cookies, pleated baseball caps and combustible cushions for flip-flop thongs.
Try to bulldoze a community center so I can build a shopping mall in its place, see whether the local youths really do band together through break dancing.
Tour parts of the country that are pro-McCain and see how many times I can pummel Muslims and Arabs before anyone questions the bigoted unconstitutional nature of my remarks. Extra style points will be awarded for use of the words “dirty”, “godless” “heathen”, and “whore”.
Become everything I ever made fun of when I didn’t have money.
Raise kids who think “please” and “thank you” are sarcastic taglines.
Hire a personal chef whose sole reason for being is to cook me scallops with butter sauce any time day or night.
Hire a personal heart surgeon to keep my soon-to-be-portly ass alive when my arteries harden from all the butter sauce.
Hire a rugged looking stable boy to bone my wife because I’ll be too fat for the exertion anymore. Get neurotic about my wife enjoying it more than I thought she should have, spend the next morning arguing. Earn extra style points for use of the words “dirty”, “godless”, “heathen”, and “whore”. Hire some guys to kick that stable boy’s ass. Feel bad for arguing with my wife, go pick up a bouquet of flowers, get mad and storm back out the house when I find she’s still not speaking to me. Hire some guys to kick that stable boy’s ass again.
Attempt to set up a Brazilian Barbeque in my basement, get careless with the embers during a party and burn down the back half of my house, including the file cabinet where I kept all my archived standup material and original script drafts. Wake up angry the next morning, hire some guys to kick that stable boy’s ass again.
Shoot my employees with a paintball gun whenever they displease me. Shoot them for dressing nice; shoot them for not dressing nice. Shoot them for having a sweet ass, shoot them for having no ass. Shoot them for letting the stapler run out without refilling it. Shoot them for not offering me coffee. Shoot them for not knowing I don’t drink coffee. Shoot them for not bringing me my bagel first on bagel day. Shoot them for bringing a handgun to work. Shoot them for asking me if I’m “ready to die, b*tch”.
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